There was a brief stretch in my first month in Korea when I stopped eating kimchi. I blame culture shock.
I had not yet grown my Asian palate and had made the expat’s error of expecting certain colours and shapes to correspond to familiar tastes. I spent far too much time pondering the explosive flavours in my mouth. This was not a side dish to be gastronomically deconstructed – not for beginners anyway. Some of the best advice that fellow expats gave me was: “Just eat it, regularly, and you will start to crave it.”
I followed this seemingly-absurd advice and began to see why fermented foods were known to be addictive. It was only later, after the cravings took hold, that I allowed myself to appreciate the variety of flavours in the many kinds of kimchi on the Korean table.
I was never more ready, then, for the annual Kimchi Festival in Gwangju. Never before had I been able to so appreciate this superfood, to seek out my favourite colours and textures, and to order three different kimchi-filled lunches.
I was sorry to have missed the kimchi-making workshop, in which visitors learn to make kimchi and take home their handiwork, as well as the scavenger hunt held by the Gwangju blog each year. I spent my day at the festival sampling kimchi of every variety, and squeezing in among the connoisseurs at popular stalls.
All the lip-smacking, onomatopoiec muttering and nodding reminded me of a wine tasting. There was also a sophisticated craftsmanship being appreciated and celebrated. When I walked through the stalls selling kimchi ingredients, however, I spotted the difference. This was a craft intended to be accessible to all kitchen-commanders, while still preserving the quality of the final product.
The process is celebrated as much as the result, as many an ajumma (아줌마) produced batch after batch on site. Rubber gloves wrist-deep in pools of bright red chili paste (고추장) made for a gory image reminiscent of a butcher’s block. Kimchi never was for the faint of heart.
The Gwangju Kimchi Culture Festival runs annually in October. After filling your belly, you can check out the kimchi museum and steal a hug from a giant fluffy cabbage – if you can compete with crowds of adoring fans.
BIFF Square gets its name from the Busan International Film Festival. This annual film festival is one of the most prestigious film festivals in Asia. BIFF Square was the original location of the BIFF, which started in 1996.
Although BIFF Square no longer plays hostess to the prestigious film festival — it was moved to the newly built Busan Cinema Center (영화의전당) in 2012 — the square is still a busy place, lined with a wide variety of shops, movie theaters, movie paraphernalia and lots of street food stalls and restaurants.
After arriving in Busan from Daejeon during our recent tasty tour of Korea, Hubby and I scouted the square one weekday mid-morning with a profound craving for some 호떡 hotteok. Thanks to the Internet, we knew there’s something special about the hotteok sold at BIFF Square food stalls.
Like the child of a doughnut and a cinnamon roll, hotteok starts out with a base of wheat flour, water, milk, sugar and yeast. After the dough rises for a few hours, golf-ball sized lumps of dough are filled with a mixture of brown sugar, honey, chopped peanuts and cinnamon. Then it’s fried on both sides to golden brown and piping hot.
Most hotteok stands will set them aside and serve as-is. Buyer beware of the sticky, hot, sweet cinnamon syrupy filling.
However, Busan-style hotteok, called ssiat hotteok (씨앗호떡), or “seed hotteok,” brings a bit more to this street treat. A regular hotteok cake is cut from the side about half-way down and stuffed with a spoonful of pine nuts, sunflower and pumpkin seeds.
Deep fried dough generously stuffed with nuts, seeds, sugar and cinnamon is always good eats. The additional seeds and nuts may give the illusion of healthiness but who eats hotteok for their health?
BIFF Square is pretty easy to find. It’s in the same neighborhoood as the Jagalchi fish market and Nampo-dong shopping area.
BIFF 광장 (Square) Plaza and Flea Market
중구 남포동5가 18 (Joong-gu, Nampo-dong 5-ga, 18) 부산광역시 (Busan), 600-045
Directions: Take subway line 1 to Jagalchi Station. From station exit 7, the plaza is a five-minute walk.
The best food and travel writers have taught us that regional cuisine is one of the ways in which culture is made manifest. Food is never simply fuel; it’s ritualistic by default. The way that it is prepared, served and eaten can reveal much about a nation’s histories and hierarchies.
In South Korea, where collectivism is central to culture, food serves as a means to develop and fortify relationships. Eating together is one of the pathways to jeong – the Korean word describing a connection between people. In Korea: The Impossible Country, Daniel Tudor describes jeong as a feeling of attachment and a bond of “deep interdependence” between individuals or groups.
For the foreigner in an untranslated world, sharing food may be one of the few ways to experience a sense of jeong. Without a common language or culture, the offer of a meal serves as an invitation to be part of a group. Likewise, gifts of food are often a way to communicate affection and friendship.
One of the best ways for foreign guest to form relationships in Korea is to try as much hansik (Korean food) as possible and be willing to engage with unfamiliar foods. Hansik is fundamental to Korean culture because eating rituals reinforce shared values, and embracing Korean cuisine shows a keenness to learn about Korean life.
When modestly declining a second piece of cake, you may come across the saying ”한번 정없어 두번 정이써”. There is no direct translation for this phrase, which roughly means that if someone takes only one piece or slice of food, there will be no jeong. Taking two or more, on the other hand, will encourage a spirit of togetherness. This may mean that polite restraint is the enemy of jeong, as one should relax and eat as much as one likes. In doing so, she or he is not only accepting food, but friendship.
You may also be asked to “please eat a lot”, a literal translation of “많이 드세요” meaning “help yourself”. Usually there really is a lot to eat. The Korean table is brimming with dishes large and small. Just as the periods of poverty in the nation’s history have shaped the flavours of its cuisine, so has the country’s relatively recent economic growth allowed for substantial meals.
Tables are also filled to ensure that no one is left wanting, as food is usually shared. Two or three large dishes will be chosen for the table, with all present being able to taste a little of each. When drinks are ordered, diners pour for each other. This prescribes a level of trust in your fellow diners, and makes for a dynamic in which individual needs and desires are secondary to the group experience. Your cup is not yours to fill; your belly not yours to govern. These social mores write jeong into the fabric of the meal, and foster moments where you can show your affection and respect for others – no words necessary.
My first destination on a mid-May 10-day tour of Korea was the city of 대전 Daejeon, more than two hours south of the Incheon airport by express bus.
View of downtown Daejeon as we entered near dusk on the express bus from Incheon airport. (credit: Jeff Quackenbush)
I had never been to Daejon before, so I did a little research about this city’s reputation. Many of my Korean friends and acquaintances gave me literal and virtual blank stares when I asked about Daejeon’s culinary commendations. My local Korean grocer thought for a long time before answering, “Acorn jelly?”
I discovered Daejeon is a transportation hub, including KTX high-speed rail, between Seoul and Busan.
Daejeon also is the Silicon Valley of Korea, as a number of high-tech companies have research facilities there. KAIST (Korea Advanced Institute of Science and Technology) is also based there.
Given that uninspiring native cuisine scene and the long trip to Korea and to Daejeon, I looked for a comfortable hotel that included Korean-style breakfast. It also had to be close to the wedding hall where a friend was getting married in a couple of days — the great excuse for a return to Korea.
I didn’t expect to take home any lessons about Korean cuisine from Daejeon, but I was very wrong.
Lesson 1: Traditional Korean breakfast in a Korean hotel — or anywhere else — is harder to find than you expect.
You wouldn’t think it would be hard to find a hotel in Korea serving a Korean-style breakfast, but it was difficult. Western-style breakfast items can be less expensive and labor-intensive, so I’m not surprised that many hotels no longer offer Korean breakfast. That’s to the chagrin of hanshik (Korean food) promoters, who under the previous Blue House administration pressured some high-end hotels to resurrect their Korean restaurants.
What was breakfast in Daejeon like? Tokoyo Inn served breakfast every morning from 7–9:30 a.m. This is what we found.
Saturday’s breakfast: Miso-based soup with cabbage; rice and beans; 오뎅 odeng (fishcakes); 삼각주먹밥 samgak joomukbap (sticky rice shaped into triangles with seasoning and vegetables; called onigiri in Japanese), mushroom banchan and kimchi.
Sunday’s breakfast: Spicy broth with cabbage; mung bean and soybean sprouts; hot dog banchan; chicken teriyaki; and samgak joomukbap.
I enjoyed both meals. Served buffet-style, they were as nutritious and filling as personal tastes would allow them to be. The samgak joomukbap was made with rice, mixed with finely minced carrot and sesame seeds and coated finely with sesame oil. The kimchi was on the fresh side — crunchy and with a little kick.
Lesson 3: Sometimes, it’s OK to stick with what you know.
Tokoyo Hotel also offered a Western breakfast buffet, but it was quite dull and nutritionally lacking in comparison with the Korean and Japanese options: sliced white bread or croissant rolls with butter and jam, coffee and a punch-like kiwi or pineapple juice.
One doesn’t to be a nutritionist or a dietician to figure out which option provides a better balance of carbs, protein and fat to get you through the morning.
Asian cuisine, and Korean food in particular, is notoriously difficult to pair with wine. Even wine-lovers agree that beer is easier on the palate, as it combats the ever-present chilli peppers and compliments the potent flavours without neutralising them. What’s more, wine doesn’t play a large role in Korean dining culture. Even locally produced wines (such as Majuang) are not always on offer in restaurants, and are usually enjoyed alone or with snacks. Most restaurants that serve Korean food don’t even keep wine glasses. That’s not to say that Koreans don’t drink wine. Western restaurants offer wine and wine bars are now cropping up in every city. At first glance, it seems that people either go out for western or eastern food and drink, and never the two shall meet.
With a closer look, however, it’s clear that the wine scene in South Korea is small, but thriving. There is also a growing global interest in pairing wine and hansik (Korean food), particularly in the US – where the large Korean/American community has fostered the spread of Korean restaurants. In South Korea itself, there are some wine-pairing pioneers that hope to educate wine connoisseurs about hansik’s potential as a great companion to some of the world’s favourite wines.
With this in mind, I decided to try my hand at pairing a new love – hansik – with an old – red wine. I thought it best to start modestly, following the advice of those who had gone before. Wine experts usually pair hansik with an off-dry Riesling or a Pinot Noir, the latter of which is more versatile than most reds. Picking up a 2009 Agustinos Pinot Noir Reserva Privada, I headed off to a restaurant in Daegu that specialises in Soondubu Jjigae.
As with most Asian food, hansik is usually shared. The table ordered four varieties of the jjigae: kimchi jjigae, mandu jjigae, beegi jjigae (with okara) and kopjang jjigae (with chitterlings). If pairing a wine with four dishes wasn’t difficult enough, Korean meals are always served with side dishes known as banchan. Our table was adorned with ramekins that offered intense flavours, as most banchan are very salty, sweet or spicy, and many are fermented, such as the ubiquitous kimchi.
While awaiting the jjigae, we opened the wine. The Pinot’s nose offered sweet aromas of vanilla and cherry, and so I was surprised when it tasted thin, albeit with a pleasant, slightly astringent, finish. My South African palate was longing for the Hermitage/Cinsault in the Pinotage hybrid, but I reserved final judgment until the end of the meal.
A spoonful of kimchi jjigae blasted over my tongue and erased all memory of the banchan or the wine. Uh-oh, I thought. This experiment may fail. The next sip of wine only confirmed these fears, as the tannins only enhanced the gochujang (a chili-pepper paste omnipresent in hansik). I felt like there was a battle for dominance being waged on my taste buds. Perhaps I had chosen the wrong wine?
Thankfully, the beeji jjigae came to the rescue. The dubu was smoothly mixed with okara, producing a nutty and creamy flavour which toned down the gochujang and yet retained a strong edge. After a spoon of this, I sipped the wine again. This was a far better pairing: the wine wasn’t lost, nor did it eclipse the jjigae. With a bite of japchae (a noodle dish) to cleanse my palate, I was ready to pair it with a new dish. The wine stood up to the mandu jjigae beautifully, and I began to appreciate the Pinot’s versatility. Overall, the wine’s tannins boosted the spice of the jjigaes and added to the warmth of the meal, which makes it a great pairing for winter. I wouldn’t recommend this pairing in the humid Korean summer, but it was a hearty combination in the icy January weather.
One of the best things about Asian food is that there is always a variety of combinations available on any given table. You are never stuck with a single pairing of tastes and textures, and can always cleanse your palate with a bite of mulkimchi (a milder, watery kimchi) or danmuji (pickled radish) and start again. A host of variables awaits the diner, who is free to customise their meal and select flavours that suit the wine. Who says Korean food doesn’t like wine? Next time, I’ll ditch the Pinot and get more adventurous. Hansik can handle it, of that I’m sure.
For more information on Korean food and wine pairing, see:
On trips to see family in Alaska’s largest city, Anchorage, I make it a point to visit VIP Restaurant at least once. It’s located in the Valhalla Center, a retail and office building amid the Korean business cluster along West Northern Lights Boulevard.
There are a few other Korean restaurants in the city, but I have a personal connection to this one. A relative built the center the 1970s and leased the space to the restaurant in the early 1990s.
VIP Restaurant is on the ground floor of the Valhalla Center on the far right side. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
VIP Restaurant — 영빈관 in the Korean name means “house for special guests” — serves a large variety of Korean food, particularly soups and stews (탕 tang and 찌개 jjigae). VIP also has a selection of broiled fish, beef and pork dishes.
For those reluctant to try Korean food, also offer a modest selection of Chinese restaurant favorites, such as curry chicken, fried rice and Mongolian beef.
My husband and I brought my mother-in-law and stepfather-in-law for a weekday lunch. The restaurant was not crowded, and we received attentive service.
Land of the Morning Calm in the Land of the Midnight Sun: A 13-banchan display was traditionally reserved for royalty, but this is not a snooty, royal cuisine restaurant. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
The waitress brought out 13 반찬 banchan (appetizer plates), the most I’ve seen at any Korean restaurant I’ve visited so far in the States.
One of the banchan highlights was the seaweed salad. My husband normally eschews chewing seaweed in its various forms. This was first seaweed salad he said he enjoyed, partly because the type of plant used was the more delicate wakame seaweed (which is called 미역, miyeok in Korean) and partly because the savory-sweet marinade pleasantly masked the taste.
The main course came with a small bowl of 동민 dong min radish kimchi broth flavored with green onion and beef. That was another first for me on this side of the Pacific.
Between the four of us, we ordered 갈비 galbi (grilled beef ribs), two variations of 돌솥 비빔밥 dolsot bibimbap (hot stone bowl filled with mixed vegetables and rice) and Mongolian beef.
Ordering galbi ($12.99 lunch) and Mongolian beef ($11.99 lunch) allowed a side-by-side comparison of Korean and Chinese foods. The galbi was grilled wang-style (“king” cut with thin meat along two- to five-inch-long ribs) rather than L.A.-style (a thin flanken cut) more common to Korean-American restaurants.
The galbi had the typical Korean sweet touch, likely from fruit juice or corn syrup in the marinade. The Mongolian beef was stir-fried with ample green onion and certainly was more savory than the galbi. My Korean cuisine–averse builder-relative scarfed up the galbi and barely touched the Chi-Am dish.
The dolsot bibimbap dishes — served at this established in thick metal bowls rather than earthenware — hit the key cue: a blazing-hot bowl to crisp the rice in sesame oil and keep the food warm throughout the meal. The latter is nice for a typical Anchorage August day: in the 50s Fahrenheit and raining.
Kimchi bibimbap with the required fried egg. The other veggies are hiding behind the kimchi (Jeff Quackenbush photo)
My husband ordered dolsot kimchi bibimbap ($14.99). He noted for our Korean cuisine–cautious tablemates that cooked kimchi takes on a mellower flavor from its banchan brother.
Royally Jeonju-style bibimbap: I decided I preferred having kimchi on the side this time around. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
For my hot bibimbap, I chose to eat like a queen: 전주 Jeonju bibimbap ($15.99). This specialty of Jeonju incorporates cues from Korean royal cuisine. My dish was overflowing with veggies: shredded laver, carrot, radish, soybean sprouts and gosari. My taste buds appreciated a generous squirt of bibibimbap 고주장 gochujang (a sweetened version of Korea’s go-to spicy red pepper sauce) from the tabletop squeeze bottle.
VIP Restaurant
Valhalla Center, 555 W. Northern Lights Blvd, Ste. 105, Anchorage, AK 99503 (907) 279-7549 Hours: Monday-Saturday, 11 a.m. to 10 p.m.; Sunday, 1 p.m. to 10 p.m. Yelp: www.yelp.com/biz/vip-restaurant-anchorage
The South Korean consulate in San Francisco found a creative way of celebrating U.S. Independence Day this year by inviting the wives of other foreign diplomats to their home to learn kimchi-making. The San Francisco Consular Corps helped put on the party.
The stated aim of this kimchi diplomacy, according to Consul Jeong-Gwan Lee and his wife, Jongran Park, was to help Americans become more familiar with Korean food and culture.
“China and Japan [are] two countries so well-known to the U.S., but compared to that, Korea is less known to the people in the United States,” Consul Lee told KGO-TV.
I find it difficult to understand how a party, to which the wives of foreign diplomats were the guests of honor, is supposed to help Americans understand the merits of the Korean/American Free Trade Agreement (KOR-US FTA) — languishing in the Senate for a final vote — and encourage Hallyu (the “Korean wave”) in the U.S.
A better tactic would be to invite San Francisco Bay Area kimchi-conscious chefs to present cooking demonstrations. Health-conscious residents in the region are learning to appreciate Korea’s fermented foods.
Korean food would not have the same appeal to American masses without 반찬 banchan. That’s the name for the collection of samples of veggies, herbs and fish-filled fare in little dishes across the table in a common Korean meal. Traditionally, banchan accompanies the main course, but a number of restaurants in the U.S. use banchan as a gratis appetizer.
“I rate Korean restaurants by their 반찬 (banchan aka sidedishes).” —Moses Olson on Twitter
Koreans love their veggies. They have invented more than 200 varieties of kimchi — which means just “pickled vegetable” — to preserve their favorite vegetables and herbs well past their natural shelf lives.
A large number of Korean recipes include fresh, in-season vegetables. One such dish is the perennial favorite 비빔밥 bibimbap, a dish with a load of vegetables and 두부 dubu (tofu) or meat atop rice and capped with a healthy dollop of 고추장 gochujang, or spicy red pepper sauce.
With such an extensive variety to chose from, no “top 10” banchan list will scratch the surface of the variety served in Korean restaurants and homes in the Land of the Morning Calm and on the east side of the Pacific. Once you unravel the mysteries of banchan, you’ll be well on your way to eating like a Korean.
Let’s wade into the basic banchan pool. Here are my favorites, in no particular order:
Korean spinach salad is easy to make on your own. If you don’t have the time, most Korean grocery stores sell it premade. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
Spinach salad, sigeumchi namul (시금치 나물)
If Popeye had this spinach dish at hand, he would never again eat spinach from a can. A quick blanching and a balanced marinade will make this spinach salad approachable to all your non-Korean friends.
Korean potato salad (감자 샐러드)
is Korean in the sense that Koreans in the U.S. discovered potato salad and decided to make it their own. They added a bit of sugar and lots of diced celery, apples and pears. Some versions also use finely diced carrots, bell peppers, or sultanas. I’ve also seen some versions include diced spam or Canadian bacon.
A couple of tablespoons of cooked rice, a little bulgogi and some diced tomatoes make a cute, healthy appetizer. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
Seasoned, roasted seaweed sheets, or kim (김)
are more commonly known by the Japanese term nori in the States. You can use kim as part of a 쌈 ssam, or wrap, with your favorite Korean barbecue. Wrap a sheet around a bite of rice, or eat it by itself as a snack.
I brought some kim to a get-together a few weeks ago. The adults approached the kim warily, but the children inhaled it. It does a good job at satisfying those occasional salt cravings that might otherwise drive you to grab a bag of fried potato chips (“crisps” in British parlance).
Seaweed salad appetizer from Honey BBQ Cuisine, Rohnert Park, Calif. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
Sauteed seaweed, miyeokjulgi bokkeum (미역줄기 볶음)
is one of the few banchan I don’t have to share with my seaweed-averse husband. The marine vegetable gives you a good iodine boost and won’t pack on the pounds.
You don’t have to wait for Hanukkah to have some potato pancakes. (Jeff Quackenbush photo)
Korean latkes, gamja jeon, (감자전)
When I make gamja jeon at home, I grate the potatoes, the garlic, ginger and the onion by hand, rather than using a food processor. There are Korean grandmothers — and Jewish grandmothers as well — who say that the only authentic potato pancake is one made totally by hand, eschewing food processors and other such modern shortcuts. In honor of them, I always make mine the same way.
White kimchi is subtle, clean and simply delicious. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
White kimchi, baek kimchi (백김치)
is proof that not all kimchi is red and spicy and out to burn you at both ends. Many kimchi variations that are mild and even refreshing.
These are not my grandmother’s mung bean sprouts. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
Marinated mung bean sprouts, sukjunamul (숙주나물)
Mung bean sprouts were one of my late grandmother’s favorite vegetables. She always had cans of La Choy bean sprouts around the house so she could satiate her cravings for chicken chow mein.
Korean pickled radish, aka chikin mu (치킨 무), at Cocobang! Restaurant, San Francisco, Calif. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
Korean pickled radish, chikin mu (치킨 무)
is the perfect palate cleanser and “degreaser” after Korean fried chicken. (Cocobbang in San Francisco has good chikin mu and curry-infused fried chicken.) If your craving inspires you into the kitchen, consider this recipe for chikin mu from Aeris’s Kitchen.
I enjoy mixing pyogo bohsot (표고버섯) directly into my rice bowl. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
Sauteed shiitake mushrooms, pyogo bohsot (표고버섯)
also does double duty in many versions of bibimbap on either side of the Pacific. The earthy-tasting, dark-colored fungus is a good meat substitute.
Whether they’re bite-sized or plate sized, kimchi jeon are a good way to sneak some kimchi into the diets of your spice-adverse pals. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
Kimchi pancakes, or kimchi jeon (김치전)
are simple to make but can be time-consuming. The batter is nearly identical to that used for Sunday brunch, except kimchi jeon batter is mixed with water and ground pork, hamburger or shellfish, rather than blueberries or bananas — savory rather than sweet.
Most kimchi jeon are made on a large scale, at least 7 inches in diameter and the chef cuts them up into smaller pieces before service. Some restaurants do make them bite sized, but it’s not as common
We have only scratched the surface of all the varieties of banchan. But now you’re ready to start eating like a Korean.
Imagine if a Korean restaurant gave you a menu of banchan (side dishes) and allowed you to pick desired items, just like you do at home? (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
KwangJuYo Chief Executive Officer Cho Tae-kwon, a former restaurateur Korean media regularly consult on hansik (Korean cuisine), served up controversy in an interview with The Korea Herald by suggesting that charging for traditionally complimentary banchan (appetizers commonly accompanying Korean meals) would create a demand for the items.
“Putting value to namul (herb) dishes, for example, will create demand for variously priced namul. The story of how namul is picked by hand on the mountainside in springtime will add to the value of namul.”
Most of the interview discussed the South Korean government’s continuing efforts to popularize Korean cuisine around the world. He said many Korean restaurants compete with each other on the selection and number of banchan dishes.
Charging for banchan also would reduce food waste in Korea, Cho suggested.
“It is also responsible for the tremendous waste of food. More than 1.3 trillion won is wasted every year as food garbage.”
I strongly agree. Food waste is a real problem in the country.
On Cho’s assertion that the premium would create demand for banchan, my gut reaction was, You’re kidding, right? Or as I wrote in a Facebook thread I set up discussing this article, “Yeah charging for banchan is 바보.”
However, charging a modest fee for banchan could increase the popularity of particular dishes with careful banchan menu planning, marketing and advertising. Growing on Cho’s notion of niche namul, a chef could craft such a menu made up of seasonal bounty with detailed descriptions of the quality, origin and preparation of ingredients. Similarly, savvy vintners of high-end wines, makers of seasonal craft brews and farmers of organic produce have been able to convince consumers to pay a premium via a well-told story.
Allowing customers to select their side dishes would alert the restaurant to which banchan to keep offering and which to discontinue. This would reduce food waste and give a competitive edge over restaurants with gratis grub. Yet blindly billing for banchan or setting up a restaurant that only serves banchan will not help popularize the dishes or the restaurant doing so.
Tov Tofu in Santa Rosa opened in late 2010 and is the latest Korean restaurant to open in Sonoma County, a winegrowing region about an hour north of San Francisco. Bear Korean in Cotati opened several years ago, followed by the now shuttered Nha Bee in Santa Rosa and Honey Cuisine in Rohnert Park in 2008.
My husband and I visited Tov Tofu for the first time on Dec. 24 for a late lunch with a couple of our friends and their two children ages 2 and 4. It’s good to invite, cajole, plead or drag your family and friends with you to a new restaurant, so you more can sample more dishes and get a variety of opinions, from the expert Koreaphile to the first-time 한식 hansik (Korean food) diner.
The dipping sauce was beautiful, but it was the pajeon itself that kept the children happy. (Jeff Quackenbush photo)
Our menu included vegetable 판전 pajeon (egg and flour pancakes), 오무라이스 omurice (fried egg omelet over fried rice), 꼬리곰탕 ggori gomtang (oxtail soup), 비빔밥 bibimbap and 냉면 naengmyeon ($9.95). Both the pajeon ($8.50) and the fried egg omelet turned out to be a kid-pleaser.
The waitress brought out salt and pepper shakers to spice up the oxtail soup. (Jeff Quackenbush photo)
The oxtail soup ($12.50) was a mellow and non-spicy option, which ties into its reputation as a health tonic. Some who are not familiar with Korean cuisine might be put off by the milky-white bone broth, but it is full of minerals, including calcium, iron and potassium.
As part of his repeated challenge to K-pop and now Hollywood star Rain, Stephen Colbert said, "I'm all over it like egg on bibimbap." This bibimbap was garnished with strips of scrambled egg. (Jeff Quackenbush photo)
Tov Tofu’s bibimbap ($12.95) was the first such dish I’ve seen that didn’t have a large fried egg placed on top, but I enjoyed the sliced egg omelet homage to the fried egg as well as the pile of kimchi, beef, mushrooms, shredded daikon radish, seaweed (김 kim) and spinach.
A surprising discovery for newcomers to Korean cuisine is 옥수수차 oksusucha (roasted-corn tea), because corn often is not thought of as a tea ingredient. I’ve found that it has to be requested at a number of Korean restaurants I’ve visited in the U.S., rather than being automatically served as green tea is at Chinese restaurants. The hint of corn in a hot beverage is a welcome way to warm the insides while waiting for the food to arrive.
We went back to Tov Tofu on my birthday. This time, my stomach drew me toward the Korean cuisine stalwart 불고기 bulgogi. Tov Tofu’s version was served in typical fashion, layered on a bed of onions and sizzling on a hot iron plate.
Bulgogi and its grilled onion bedding. (Tammy Quackenbush photo)
The savory side of bulgogi was more prominent in this interpretation than the characteristic sweetness, which is usually imparted by a Korean pear-forward marinade. Yet the grilled onions added a little sweetness and were just as tasty as the bulgogi itself.
My husband ordered the beef version of 김치 순두부 찌개 kimchi soondubu jjigae (kimchi stew with silken tofu) ($9.95). Those who may be averse to kimchi may want to give kimchi jjigae a try, because cooking gives kimchi tames the tang. Also, the tofu soothes the fire of this spicy dish. The broth had a slight fishy flavor, which likely came from either a fish broth or the fish paste used in many versions of kimchi.
Tov Tofu
1169 Yulupa Ave., Santa Rosa, Calif.
www.tovtofu.com
Hours: Six days a week and closed Mondays. Lunch is served from 11 a.m. to 2:30 p.m.; dinner, 5 to 9 p.m.
